


Routine Maintenance

by messier51



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Artificer, Fillory (The Magicians), M/M, Minor Body Horror, Minor Kady Orloff-Diaz/Julia Wicker, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, POV Eliot Waugh, POV Quentin Coldwater, Sky Pirates, Wingfic, queliot, weird sex metaphors
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-01-12 14:09:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18448166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/messier51/pseuds/messier51
Summary: Quentin Coldwater is an artificer: a magical mechanic. Some of the Fillorian Royal Couriers use his mechanic services for maintenance of their mechanical wings, which allow them to traveQuentin's favorite customer (or, his most frustrating one) is a courier named Eliot Waugh, who has a penchant for flirtation and some odd quirks about his wings. Eliot's got a new mission to take a package to Loria and he comes to Quentin for a pre-job check-up.





	1. The Coldwater Artificiery

 

 

The spell that alerts Quentin Coldwater to any visitor walking through his wide open warehouse workshop door is subtle, but effective. Oftentimes he’s so caught up on a research problem or a new book that he would otherwise have ignored a paying client, which is, as he’s found, an unsustainable business practice.It also lets him address guests without looking up from his work, which results in the best responses.

“I’ll be with you in just a moment,” he says loudly enough to carry from the back of the workshop where he’s staring down his chalkboard. The theory should be sound but the equations don’t add up. Julia would know, if she weren’t halfway around the world. He sighs.

“Don’t rush on my account,” says the person -- the _client_ , Quentin reminds himself, before setting down something rather heavy with a small crash.

Quentin rolls his stick of chalk back and forth between his fingers a few times. The soft grey pads of the index and middle finger on his left hand register the feeling of the chalk a little differently than his thumb, and it almost feels as if the chalk is in two different places at once. If there’s an energy efficient way to automate instantaneous bulk transfer processes, at the moment it’s escaping him. He puts down his chalk.

“Eliot,” he greets his friend. Client. Occasional drinking partner. Whatever. “What did you break this time?”

“Nothing!” Eliot sounds affronted, but not in any honest sort of way. “I was hoping you might have time for a routine maintenance check-up and give me a hand with attachment.”

“I always have time for a Royal Courier.” Though Quentin knows Eliot’s response before he asks, he does it anyway; “Is something wrong with the automated attachment enchantments?”

“Of course not. I just prefer to do it manually. The automation spell works just fine, Q, but why rush things like that.”

Quentin shrugs. He picks up the hefty hard-leather case that Eliot’d dropped on the floor and lays it out on his largest worktable in the center of his workshop. Each of the latches clicks easily open as he works his way around. When he finishes laying out the two mirror-image mechanical apparati on his table carefully in front of him, he smiles.

Working on wings will never, ever get old.

Routine maintenance is not exactly a simple task--the mechanical parts, the spellwork, and the user all need to be balanced and attuned. Mostly, Eliot’s wings are in superb shape. Fillorian Royal couriers often carry the most precious cargo and are popular targets of bandits and thieves. Despite this, they are the most efficient and safest way to move important documents and small items around the world. So they’re well-compensated for their work.

“It looks like your scapular bearings are worn down a lot more than they ought to be, can I take a look at you?”

“Sure,” Eliot says, starting to untie his shirt. “How do you want me?”

Eliot Waugh: Flirt of the Century. Angel of the Crown. _Client_.

“You can leave that on for now.”

“Too late.”

“Suit yourself.” Quentin focuses and weaves out a spell with his fingers that will allow him to view Eliot’s magical aura.

“Oh, _that’s_ what you wanted to see? Kinky but I’m into it.”

Quentin ignores him. It’s just how Eliot converses with people; it doesn’t mean anything.

“Have you noticed any drag recently when you fly?”

“Yeah...actually. Like I can’t adjust quite as fast as I expect to. How did you...what’s wrong with me?”

“I’m not sure. It doesn’t look harmful, but your aspective flux conversion levels have drifted. I’ve never seen that happen before this fast--they’re more efficient now than they used to be, so I’m not worried, but we will have to adjust for it so that you’ll be back in balance. Then you won’t be back here quite so soon for major repairs.

“Well, I suppose that’s a good idea.”

“I’m going to check all your tau levels and make whatever adjustments you need, don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried.” He points at the smaller empty work table that they use for manual attachments. “You need me to lay down so that you can poke me with your stick?”

Quentin nods. “They’re calipers, technically.”

Eliot balls up the shirt in his hands and lies face-down on the table, using the shirt as a pillow.

“Prod and ogle away.”

Q casts a temporary “ogling” spell on the safety spectacles hanging from his neck and sets his metacalipers on the table. Even without magical goggles, Eliot’s back is an uncommon sight. Two boomerang shaped living tin alloy plates with a series of magic-conducting indium nodes take up most of the real estate. The plates are warm to the touch, and Q licks the chalk off his left index finger before setting it to an integration node to check for magical charge.

“That’s so gross.”

“Shut up.”

The boundary between the living metal and Eliot’s skin is long-healed, but it’s not the only scarring. Q knows the stories for some of them--an unsatisfied buyer, a sky harpy, a run-in with an airship propeller--but not all. Q checks all the nodes and then sets his fingers to Eliot’s skin to feel the interplay between muscle and malleable metal. He’s not a doctor or a biointegrator, but he’s been working with Angels for long enough to know the basics.

Eliot lets out pleased sounds with each press of Q’s fingers (for _measurement_ purposes) and Q works his way around each of Eliot’s connector panels.

“I think your muscles are a little swollen where the tin alloy is fused to your shoulder blades. Probably because your adjustments were off; but still. You might want to get that looked at.”

“ _You’re_ looking at it.”

“By someone who knows what they’re doing.”

Eliot purrs happily under Q’s fingers. “Worth it for the massage though.”

Q flicks his ear.

He’s not sure when exactly they became _friends_ or even if that’s really what they are, but he cherishes the moments like this.

He pulls his bespelled spectacles on and picks up the calipers.

“Time for the less fun part.”

“Do your worst.”

Most of Eliot’s tau levels are within the expected drift parameters, though a few of his flux levels are significantly increased, as if someone turned the spigot on his internal magical faucets. Q records his results.

Eliot is sleeping by the time Q finishes his measurements. Q grabs a blanket from his office and gently lays it over him before beginning adjustments.

When Q finishes re-balancing the spellwork hours later, the sky is orange and he’s hungry.

 

* * *

 

 

“Hey sleepyhead,” Q says softly, not wanting to wake Eliot too abruptly. “You should probably be awake for reattachment.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Hey, what if we use the first half of the automation spellwork to levitate the wings. It’s always so awkward to do it on the table. We could try it standing up?”

Eliot licks his lips. Q shouldn’t be so excited by this, but, honestly, he’s glad Eliot comes to him.

“Let’s try it. Can you alter the spellwork or…”

“It’s an algorithm that runs multiple spells so--well. Short version, no. I’ll just activate the first two individually.”

“Right. So I’ll just… stand here then.”

Eliot slides off the table and turns away from Q, bracing both his hands on the table in front of him.

It strikes Q that Eliot doesn’t even want or need to look at his handiwork--most of the Angels he’s worked with do, even if they don’t understand his every explanation. Eliot, though, just trusts him.

The spells are simple ones that Julia derived and Q integrated into his designs. He traces them out in the space between himself and Eliot and the soft hum of tiny brass gears and phase-shifted aluminum fills the silence. The wings have enough magical juice for the attachment but primarily draw power from their host.

Q maneuvers the two hovering appendages into place and asks, “Which one first?”

Eliot shrugs. “Surprise me.”

Q leans forward, tugging Eliot’s right wing into place. He’s close enough to see wiring on the wing’s connection panel, and also to breath on Eliot’s neck. Eliot shivers just slightly.

“Sorry,” he mutters, and tugs the top wire loose from its locking clamp.

“I’m not.”

Q sucks in a breath. He guides the wire to its corresponding node. When it presses into place, the distinction between node and wire ceases to exist. Eliot lets out a small whimper, and his arms go taught against the table.

“One down.”

Q fuses each of the wires to its proper node, and checks the connection. Each draws a helpless, wordless sound out of Eliot, and Q keeps a running commentary as if it’s not the hottest thing he’s ever experienced.

Usually, it’s more difficult, and he’s got to focus on balancing the wings and connecting them fast enough that his arms won’t give out.

This… is almost torture.

“First one done. Need a minute?” Q asks as he snaps the final wire into place.

Eliot’s whole body stutters. “Fuck me,” he says, catching his breath.

Q couldn’t agree more. Eliot shakes out his arms and rolls his neck. He takes a deep breath and, careful not to draw on the instinctual connection with his wings until he’s got both, braces himself against the table again.

“Do you want me to go faster?”

“GOD Q, no. Please… please.” 

“Okay.”

The left wing goes on much like the right, though Eliot is much quieter. Q knows from past attachments that the second one is always harder, because if Eliot tries to connect to his wings once one is attached but not the other, he runs the risk of short-circuiting both the wings and also himself.

“Okay, almost done,” Q says, and Eliot quivers under his hands. “There, all good.”

Eliot’s knees give a little, and Q grabs his elbow to hold him up. He holds his spectacles up to look at the flow of magic between Eliot and his wings, but the circulation’s only at about 50%.

“Am I good?”

“Not even close.”

Eliot turns around, and, careful of his furled wings, leans back against the table. He looks at Q as Q slowly lowers the lens he was peering through. Eliot opens his mouth, and Q panics.

“So, what’s your job this time?”

Eliot frown, then looks over at his smaller courier’s bag.

“I’m not sure what it is, they didn’t say. It’s in my bag if you want to take a look.”

Q takes the distraction. The package is about the size of a loaf of bread, wrapped in nondescript brown paper. Utterly unremarkable, except for--

“Three seals? That seems like overkill.”

“That’s what I said too. Margo just shrugged at me.”

Q’s met Eliot’s handler a few times. Each of the Royal couriers has one to protect and manage the assets of the crown.

“It’s also...huh.” Q reaches out his senses through his left hand, like he did when he was checking Eliot’s tau levels. It’s not that he can tell what’s inside things, exactly, although sometimes with mechanical objects he can get a pretty good idea. But all objects have a sort of _flavor of being_ to them, and Q has a knack for knowing exactly how broken a thing is. He chases after the feeling that there’s something wrong with the package. Eliot watches him quietly.

“Okay, weird.”

“Weird good? Or weird bad?”

“Weird _empty_. Like, something is supposed to be in there, and it’s _not_.”

Eliot walks (more steadily now) over to look, too.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been asked to deliver the absence of something to someone before. Cool.” He rolls his shoulders, looking visibly itchy. Looks around the workspace for any distraction. “You have a Fool’s Lamp somewhere in here right? Maybe we could check it out.”

Magical X-ray vision might work. But, more likely, it wouldn’t.

“...I do, but we can’t. El, it’s got three different seals, someone wants to keep it safe. Either it’ll have a tamper indicator or an impenetrable charm, or both.”

“So, not worth losing my job, you mean.”

“Not this time.”

Q turns around and pulls up a lens to look at Eliot’s integration levels.

“How do I look?”

“Uh… you’re. You should be good to go.”

Eliot smiles.

Q sets the package aside and hoists himself up onto his wing-empty table to watch.

“You want me to watch your flows?” Q asks, lifting his spectacles.

Eliot holds up a hand.

“I got this. You’ve done too much squinting through lenses today, just sit back and enjoy the show.”

Q shrugs. He can’t argue with that.

And Eliot’s checks _are_ a show. Each Angel has their own style, their own way of testing out the mechanics of their devices. Eliot’s style is as flashy as he is. He closes his eyes and holds out his hands with his palms up and his elbows tucked into his sides. He sucks in a deep breath, holds it for a moment, rolls his shoulders, and in one gracefully quick motion, he unfurls his wings fully.

Quentin smiles. It really is beautiful.

Eliot quickly runs through a series of mobility checks, testing each mirrored joint in tandem and then separately. When he finishes, he opens his eyes and looks at Quentin. He gestures to his chest, in the same spot where Q’s spectacles are hanging.

“You can look now.”

Q holds them up, but he only needs a quick glance. Eliot is shining.

“Perfect.”

Eliot smiles wider, if that’s possible, and takes two floating dash steps towards the gaping entryway of the warehouse.

“Wait, your--”

But he’s not listening. He shoots through the door shirtless with his wings tucked in and spreads them just as he breaches Q’s warding spells. In a blink, Eliot’s gone.

Q grabs the shirt Eliot left on the table and folds it, swapping it out for the modified-for-wings flight jacket in the same satchel the package was in. He grabs the package and puts it back too, then wanders outside.

The sky is still navy blue over the western horizon, but it’s too dark to see where Eliot went. Q hugs the flight jacket to his chest and waits. But not too long.

Eliot lands at a lope and folds gracefully onto the stoop next to Q, chattering.

“Okay, it’s a little cold.”

Q hands him the jacket, which he shrugs on over his head and fits his arms into, then reaches around to warp and tie the sash that goes around his abdomen, beneath his wings.

“I don’t think,” he says as he tries to untangle his twisted sash, “that they’ve ever worked this well. You’re magic.”

“I know.”

“You could get paid to do this, you know.”

“I do. I just send all your bills to Margo.”

“You take the fun out of everything.”

Q takes pity on him and tugs on his sash.

“Stand up, I’ll fix it for you.”

While Q fiddles with Eliot’s wing-sort-of-friendly garment, Eliot flexes his fingers.

“Hey,” he says, and stops fidgeting. “It’s pretty late and we haven’t eaten. You should come get dinner with me.”

“Uhm. I, uh. I left a mess. In my workshop. I need to put all my things away.”

“C’mon, that can wait.” Eliot drags a knuckle down Q’s arm. “Let me repay you for all your help.”

Q swallows hard. He focuses on flipping the sash over so that it’s not twisted. “ The Royal Treasury pays all your bills just fine. Besides, I’m not that hungry.”

His stomach growls on cue, because he can’t even tell small lies convincingly.

Eliot just looks sad, though. Not offended. He tucks a loose hair back behind Q’s ear and leans in to kiss the side of Q’s forehead, so lightly that Q almost imagines it’s not real.

“All right. Can I leave my case here?”

“Of course. It’ll be on the same shelf as always. Hey. Be safe out there this time, okay? You always come back here all banged up.”

“Whatever happens to my wings, you’re always able to fix them.”

“I’m not worried about your wings, El. I’m a mechanic. I’m not a doctor.”

“They’re the most valuable part of me.”

“That’s not true.”

“It’s true enough. But I have to go if I intend to convince Chef to feed me. And I’ll get out of your way.”

Quentin almost changes his mind. He almost says, _don’t go_. He stops himself. Letting Eliot seduce him would be the easiest thing in the world. And the hardest, when it would only ever be that. So he doesn’t get up from the stoop when Eliot walks inside to collect his courier bag with his package, or offer to help as Eliot fumbles with the strap adjustments on the bag.

Eliot waves briefly before disappearing up into the sky, a blur of flesh and metal in the dark.

Quentin lets out a whimper.

This is for the best. If he keeps repeating it to himself, he might even start to believe it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a vague outline for 5 or 6 more chapters of this story but it's not high priority at the moment, so I'm posting this now and hopefully I'll get around to the rest of it later.
> 
> More tags tbd and the rating may change. 
> 
> (Constructive criticism welcome!)


	2. Net Loss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot delivers a package to Loria. He runs into a net literally, and then figuratively.

Eliot flies.

Loria is far from Fillory and speed isn’t his forte, but he’s frustrated and tearing blindly across the sky suits his mood. It’s not Quentin’s fault that he’s so sweet and easy to love. And it’s not like Eliot was proposing to spend the rest of their lives together or anything quite so serious. Just something simple. Something that would let him put his hands on Q’s body and make him feel _good_ in return.

Standing there with Q’s hands on him while he slid each connector into place, Eliot would’ve promised him anything at all if he could’ve spoken a single word. It’s always good but--that had been special.

But he’s not _what_ Quentin wants, and he’s not _who_ Quentin wants. Q’s sweet smiles and nerdy excitement, his soft touches and attention to intimate detail. He’d do that for anyone.

Eliot barrels into a cloud and hears the zing of metal cables shifting in the wind a moment too late to properly evade. He tries to turn anyway; his right wing and arm that collide with the electrified net. His muscles convulse from the electric current running through him and it pins him in place, forced to cling to something that will almost certainly kill him, or hold him him place until it’s casters arrive. If they arrive before he dies, they’ll also likely kill him.

Eliot dislikes these options.

What was it Q had said, rambling, about wings and electricity? Something about how magic and electricity could be used interchangeably--sometimes. He knows his wings can be overloaded, but they need to form a full circuit to short them out. And since he’s part of that circuit… Well. It’s the stupidest idea he’s got, but it’s also the only one.

The clouds in front of Eliot are getting darker and in the space between pounding heartbeats he can hear yelling on the wind. No time. It’s a small thing to propel himself _forward_ with his left wing, the rest of the way into the net and grab it with his left hand. He concentrates on the electricity, trying to see it as magical energy instead of a ringing feeling of death. Eliot feels the moment his wings overload as a separate jolt behind his heart just before he passes out.

Pros: Eliot’s not stuck to an electrified metal net anymore.

Cons: He comes to in freefall. His wings are about 15 feet away and a little above him, flipping over and buffeting at terminal velocity. Eliot shakes off the hazy buzzing feeling coursing through his veins as best he can and starts the attachment spell.

As the spell takes hold and his wings orient themselves, Eliot looks up. Overhead, a zeppelin looms. A spray of flares shoots off the stern, lighting up the dim hazy air around Eliot--they know someone’s down here, and they’re going to come for him. Deep breath.

The attachment spell is elegant. It’s simple; everything comes together at once. No soft touches, no stray wires. No agonizing build as each connector slides into place one at a time, feeling too heavy and too light all at once. No fizzing sensation of incompleteness building with more and more intensity until Q connects the last wire to its node, with the feelings of completion and release, when he can finally think again for a few moments before they start the whole process a second time. The spell takes all the pleasure out of the experience.

The spell saves his ass from crashing into the ground, and he’s thankful for Quentin and his spellcrafting associate.

A second volley of flares rains down around him and Eliot can’t wait for his magic to fully synchronize with the wings or he’ll run into the ground: he gives himself three full slow breaths, gets blinded by a flare that comes too close to his face, and lets his instincts take over. His reactions are too slow; he feels sluggish in the air. Part of that is, no doubt, because he’s not fully synchronized. He hopes like hell that nothing vital broke when he short circuited himself.

Eliot’s falling too fast to come to a stop and his wings aren’t responding fast enough to get full control. He banks too hard and tumbles, rights himself, and tries to adjust slowly into a safer glide--a more controlled fall. He shoots out of the layer of clouds to find himself much closer to the trees than he was hoping. Trees are good for cover but bad for landing. Another flare grazes his left calf--no--not a flare. A bullet. He can hear the echoing rapport from above, probably some kind of gatling gun.

Trees it is. He dips a little faster than he intends and pulls up as he scrapes through the crown of an oak tree. At least it slows his descent. The pine tree branch he slams into does an even better job of slowing him down.

Everything hurts by the time Eliot collapses to the forest floor, and his wings feel too heavy. He limps to a dry-ish looking spot under a pine tree and runs Q’s detachment algorithm spell. It’s not the smartest thing to do; without the wings he can’t take off quite as quickly. But they make a decent tent with the tarp from his pack thrown over them. Eliot tries to get a look at the burning pain his left leg is causing him, but the fabric of his pants is matted into it with blood, and he’s too tired to deal with it right this moment. It’s bad to put it off until tomorrow, but it will be worse if he tries something tonight and fucks up on account of exhaustion.

Eliot pulls a roughspun silk cloak out of his bag and wraps it around himself. He hugs the bag with its mysterious package to his chest and hopes this was all worthwhile.

 

* * *

 

 

Eliot wakes up when his tarp drips water on his face when it’s accosted by small forest creatures scurrying up the pine tree. It’s light out, but early morning. He feels slightly less like he just got electrocuted. His leg aches. The forest is quiet around him, so he pulls down his tarp and shakes it out. A few words of power dry it out so that he can fold it back up to stow it.

He pulls enough water from the air to fill his mug with one spell and coaxes the molecules in it to boiling with another. Coffee, first. Then status checks. Eliot runs the attachment spell and waits patiently until he’s finished his coffee before he starts running through his checks.

His wings work. They’re a bit worse for the wear, and he’s going to have to get them looked at as soon as he gets back to Fillory. It’ll be a good excuse to go see Quentin. The thought makes him smile.

Quentin will start off angry, then he’ll get worried when Eliot describes how he narrowly escaped a zeppelin full of sky pirates and their electrified net. Maybe he’ll complain about his shoulders hurting, and get Q’s hands on him again…

Lost in a daydream, Eliot puts weight on his left leg and is sharply reminded that he was hit by a bullet yesterday. He grimaces and tugs a little on the fabric that’s now attached. It’s a cold damp morning and he’ll make it to Loria by the afternoon if he doesn’t run into more sky pirates. If he spends time to do a bad first aid job, he won’t get there until evening if he makes it today at all. He pulls out a knife and cuts around the fabric that’s enmeshed into the wound, then wraps it with a bandage so that it won’t pull the scabbing free and start bleeding again. The healers will hate him, but he’ll get there if he doesn’t have to walk.

It’s overcast still though, and Eliot doesn’t want to chance running into more pirate nets or hidden ships. It’ll be safe to stay in the forest for now instead of flying above it.

Eliot threads through the trees. It’s better than walking, marginally. Well, more than marginally, because walking would mean putting weight on his probably seriously wounded leg. After an hour he lands to drink some water and catch his breath. Weaving through trees is more aerobic than gliding through the sky.

The sun is burning off the clouds and there’s not much forest left before he hits the Lorian farmlands anyway, so Eliot decides to chance flying over the trees the rest of the way. He just needs to make it to the castle; King Idri will take care of everything once he gets there; he’s always been kind.

Eliot just has to get to the Loria with the package in one piece.

Maybe he’ll hire a carriage to get home. Take things easy.

Maybe Idri will share his big, warm bed again.

The thought of taking things easy carries him all the way to the palace gates, where he’s ushered inside with little fanfare. Eliot expects to be taken to Idri’s office, where he can officially transfer possession to The King of Loria. Instead, he’s taken farther into the castle, to the main audience hall. Eliot’s only been here once before, when he caught the end of a dispute settlement. He’d had to wait until that was over before he could deliver important state documents. He hopes he won’t have to stand around today; he’s using his wings to accommodate his limp but he’s still slowing down the page guiding him--clearly to the page’s frustration. _Sorry kid_ , he thinks, but keeps his mouth shut. One thing at a time.

The page shows him through a side door and motions for Eliot to stay put while they make their way around the gathered courtiers to whisper something to one of Idri’s advisors, whose eyes find Eliot before she nods. Eliot nods back awkwardly in return. His leg hurts, and his wings are awkward in an enclosed room full of people. He shuffles back against the wall, trying to stay out of the way.

The large room has a glass ceiling that lets through sunlight filtered by clouds and a few iridescent gauzy curtains. King Idri sits on a raised dais at the front. He watches his daughter Ru ask someone Eliot can’t see hidden behind onlookers about the predicted output of a woodmill and why their expenditures don’t match their budget. Ru’s brother chimes in with the exact figures, and the room is silent as the person (sitting at a table, Eliot gathers) rifles through some paperwork before stuttering out an answer about inflation and unforeseen beetle troubles. King Idri raises his voice.

“I’ve heard enough. Any other questions?”

Ess speaks up but does not stand to ask his final question: “One more thing. Your initial building plans list an external business partner, and we approved this contract with the understanding that the crown would not be footing 100% of the bill for this project. Why hasn’t The McAllister Foundation provided the support they promised and why are you petitioning us instead of them?”

The spokesperson clears their throat. “The _help_ that our business partners provided made the registered Lorian Guildworkers uncomfortable. There were talks of strikes. We prioritized their labor over _foreign_ sources.”

There’s an odd note to the word foreign, but Eliot can’t place it. He tries to sink farther back against the wall.

Idri grunts. “Useless. This questioning is going in circles. Guards, please escort the millwrights guild representatives to the yellow anteroom to await a verdict. Ru, Ess, do you have any further business?”

“No, father,” Rue and Ess respond in chorus. Ru sinks into a chair next to her brother. Eliot wishes he had a chair, too.

The advisor that acknowledged Eliot’s entrance walks up to the king and speaks softly to him. He nods to her.

She announces; “The Royal Fillorian Courier brings a package for his majesty. Please step forward.”

Okay, so they’re doing this here.

Eliot pushes off the wall that’s holding most of his weight and stumbles forward almost into the courtiers in front of him. He subconsciously reaches for the hovering spells in his wings and catches himself, but extends his wings in the process. The nearby people titter and everyone turns to look at his wings.

“I don’t have time for dramatics today, Eliot. Just bring me the damn package.”

Right.

Eliot folds his wings and skirts the table where the mill workers had been sitting, then pulls off his courier bag to take out the package. He walks a little lopsidedly up to Idri and hands it over with an attempt at a smile.

Idri doesn’t even look at him. He waves to his children, who join him. Prince Ess pulls a chain from under his tunic from which dangles a seal stamp on an intricate silver handle. Princess Ru twists one of her rings around and flips a cap on it to reveal a smaller, similar seal. King Idri wears his on a signet ring, large and obvious. In a moment, the binding spells have been released. Ru and Ess stow their seals but stick around to see what their father has received. He doesn’t send them away.

Idri unfolds the flap and looks into the package--and frowns. Which is never a good sign. Angels don’t deliver the wrong things, and you don’t pay shit tons of money for fancy couriers if you don’t know what you’re getting.

“If this is a joke, you have failed to be amusing. Where is the real package?” Idri looks Eliot dead in the eyes.

“I don’t--that’s the package. Your seals and everything.”

“This?” King Idri holds up the package so that Eliot can see its lack of contents. “This is _not_ what was supposed to arrive.” He shoves the package back into Eliot’s hands. “Where are they?”

“Where are _what_?” Eliot asks, at a loss. His voice cracks, and everything hurts and--Q had said the package felt empty. If he’d been given an empty package from the start… there wouldn’t be a good resolution to this.

The package had been _sealed._

“Guards!” King Idri calls.

Ess smiles at Eliot, Ru doesn’t bother hiding her smirk. _Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck._ Eliot looks up--the glass is probably reinforced but not spellproof--and decides it’s worth the risk.

“I’ve had enough of this game, and your irresponsibility will not go unnoted. You’ll be dismissed from your position for this.”

He’s probably not wrong. Eliot spreads his wings. He might have knocked something over, he’s not sure. He’s focused on a pretty simple _break_ spell, making tuts one-handed and shoving the force before him as he propels himself ceiling-ward. Shouts follow him from the ground.

Glass crashes to the ground around him, and the shouts get louder. A breeze fills his ears and Eliot takes a deep breath. He shoots off through the sky towards Fillory, clutching the empty package to his chest.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Constructive criticism welcome!


	3. Royal Warlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Coldwater Artificiery gets a lot of surprise guests, starting with Alice Quinn: master magician and Royal Warlock.

Quentin’s alert spells slide into barrier mode with a not-so-subtle buzz that crawls down Quentin’s entire spine. He sets down his file and brushes most of the metal dust from his hands. There’s a sign next to the door that says “No Weapons Allowed” that no one ever reads, much less the one under it that says “if you are bringing your weaponry for repair, please ring bell.” He doesn’t get many folks in the shop looking for weaponry repairs, though, and most people walking around with weapons who don’t need them repaired aren’t looking for his services anyway.

Outside his large open front door, a few Royal Mages are chatting in their yellow and black cloaks. A pair of guards in royal blue and red flank Alice Quinn, master magician and Royal Warlock, who stands with her arms crossed. Quentin wonders briefly if she’s been tapping her foot in impatience waiting for him, and then the moths take over his stomach. He stays just inside the wards.

“Mr. Coldwater?” asks one of Alice's guard lackeys.

As if he could be anyone else. He kind of wishes he were anyone else.

“It's actually Dr. Coldwater, I did my dissertation on the magical repair of small objects at Brakebills College.”

“Don't be an ass, Quentin,” Alice says.

“Do you really have to ask who I am?” he retorts.

“It's protocol. You know that.”

Quentin sighs. “Whatever…just. What do you need?”

“We have reasonable cause to search your premises under the authority of High King Fen.”

“You--what? What the fuck, Alice?”

All five of Alice's lackeys turn their eyes on Quentin. Alice relaxes and casts a spell to reveal the magical underpinnings of Quentin's alert spell.

“Your ward is unorthodox. Does it react to intention?”

Quentin is tempted to tell her yes, that Julia had figured out something Alice had spent so much time thinking about… But.

“No, just weapons. The posted sign is pretty clear,” Quentin says and points in the direction of the sign.

“I'm unarmed, and it didn't let me through.”

Quentin almost laughs.

“Julia designed it, maybe she programmed it to keep you out, specifically.”

“Todd,” Alice says to one of her mage cohort, “write up a citation for _Dr. Coldwater_ for illegal spellwork on a place of business, with the appropriate fines.”

“Yes ma'am,” he responds, and pulls a notebook out of his robe.

“Alice that's ridiculous. It's not illegal spellwork and you know it.”

“It's inhibiting my investigation. You're welcome to dispute your spell's legality with the Council of Masters later.” She raises her hands, again, bending light between her pinched fingers, as if she's looking for a seam in the spell to pick apart.

“I don’t even know the name of the spell because it’s custom designed so it’s not like I can cross-check it with the list of illegal spells in the codex. And you won't find the hook that way, we're not that sloppy.”

Alice glares through her glasses.

“As if you care about the tidiness of your spellwork. There are other ways to unravel a spell. Maybe if you'd stayed to continue your studies as a Royal Mage you'd know that… But fine. We can do it your way. Take it down or I'll bring the whole building down. This isn't a joke, it's a matter of national security.”

The hint of their old argument pulls loose a tumble of old feelings to go along with it, and Quentin is tired of those particular feelings. He shoves them to the back of his brain and decides it's not worth it--he dispels the wards with a wave of his hand.

“If you're looking for hex wrenches I have plenty but I can't promise you'll find a full set.”

Alice gestures her underlings inside. To the mages she says, “Check everything. This is his last known location.”

“What are you looking for?”

Alice pauses in her methodical sweep of the warehouse to look at Quentin.

“It's just,” he continues, “if it's something specific, I can just tell you where it is. They don't have to rifle through my drawers and tear everything apart. I'm not going to hide something from you if it's a _matter of national security_.”

Saying he wouldn't hide something from her might have been a poor word choice. He'd known how she'd feel when he decided to leave and pursue work instead of study, but he had never meant to keep it from her for so long.

“You should sit down, I have some questions for you when I finish--oh. There.”

Alice walks over to the shelf where Eliot's leather wing case sits, and levitates it down with a spell, floating it over and setting it gently on the smaller work table. Quentin joins her, but she warns him to take a step back.

“Wh-”

“Shut up.”

She doesn't bother to unlatch the case neatly, but (without touching it, probably to keep it uncontaminated for evidence or whatever) forces the case open with a magical pull.

Quentin drags his hands down his face and peers between his fingers. The case is empty. It's empty even after she does a second spell, and a third. Nothing changes except Alice, who gets more and more frustrated.

“Where did it go?”

“It would be a lot easier to answer that if I knew what exactly it is you think I have.”

“Don’t play coy, Quentin, it’s not cute.”

“I’m not, I’m just…”

“How long have you known Eliot Waugh?”

“What does that have--”

“Just answer the question.”

Quentin ignores the banging noises as Alice's lackeys search his workshop.

“Since Julia and I upgraded all of the Angel wings to have automatic attachment capabilities. So about two years? I get a few couriers who come to me for repairs and maintenance; he's one of them.”

“Can you confirm he was here four days ago?”

Quentin tries to count back the days. Four sounds about right.

“Yes? I have the receipt of payment from the Whitespire bursar that has the exact date. And he left his leather case here, but you already figured that out…”

“Can you describe everything that happened while he was here?”

“Uhh. Yes?”

She makes a _well get on with it_ gesture.

“I checked the wings, then did some measurements of his taus and fluxes because some of his bearings were worn down unevenly. Then I made all the adjustments--Eliot took a nap on the table--when I was done we attached the wings,” Quentin tries not to blush when he thinks about it. “Eliot did his checks and then a test flight outside, before he… Left to go back to Whitespire for the night.”

“Did he say anything about his delivery job?”

“Yeah, he showed me the package while we waited for equilibration. About yay big,” Quentin gestures, “and it had three seals on it, which seemed like overkill.”

“And when he left, did he take it with him?”

“Uhm, yeah? Why wouldn't he?”

“Did you see him take it?”

“Technically? No. After his test flight he went back inside to get his bag, which had the package in it, but if he'd left it in my workshop I haven't seen it.” Quentin lets out a breath and adds a little more hopefully than certainly, “Eliot wouldn't have made a mistake like that, he's good at his job.”

Alice scribbles down a few notes and Quentin looks up to see the mess that used to be his workshop. It's never _tidy_ , but things have an order to them. Now, drawers have been pulled out and left on the floor. Tools are sitting out on tables instead of put away in cabinets where they belong. One of his buckets of odds and ends has been upended onto the floor.

He should be angry about this. He realizes instead that he's worried about Eliot, and whatever trouble he's gotten mixed up in. Eliot hadn't even known what was in the package, why would he have stolen it?

When they've finally finished tearing everything apart, they make their reports to Alice. Nothing here, no sign of Eliot or the package, no magical trace other than this part of the room and the case; a few of the tools but that makes sense if they were used on his wings.

“If Mr. Waugh returns to Fillory and you see him, you shouldn't engage and you should send word to my office immediately, okay?”

“Sure, fine.”

“I'm serious, Quentin. He's dangerous and we don't know what his intentions are. I know you'll do the right thing.”

His _intentions_ , Q thinks as Alice follows her minions out the door, were to take me to dinner and probably have his way with me. The most nefarious part of it all had been Q's white lies. _Not hungry_. As if.

Quentin rolls the overhead door closed and slides down against it. A flick of his fingers shuts off the overhead lights, which should keep anyone from thinking he’s open for business. He looks around the workshop and runs his hands through his hair. In a minute, he tells himself, he’ll get up and deal with it. He takes a deep breath, lets his head fall back against the door, and closes his eyes. They don’t have Eliot or the package, so maybe he’s okay. Quentin wonders again why it felt empty, and what was in it--or what was supposed to be in it. Maybe he should have tried harder to figure it out. Maybe he should have let Eliot take him out for dinner, just in case he doesn’t ever get that chance now. He does not cry.

 

* * *

 

 

Quentin jumps at a knock on the door. He’d meant to get up--how long ago? There’s so much to clean up and fix, and the floor isn’t that comfortable.

The knock comes again. He wonders if he should tell them the shop is closed--as if that’s not obvious. There’s a voice--voices? But they’re too quiet to make out. Until one of them yells at the door.

“Quentin? Q! Are you there? I’m opening the door!”

The latching mechanisms click as Julia’s spell unhitches them, and the door slides up. Quentin’s head smacks uncomfortably against the slats in the door as it rises, and it catches him off-guard. When he puts his hand up to soothe the bump on his head, he falls backwards as there’s no longer a door behind him to hold him up. He looks up into the faces of Julia and her bodyguard-slash-bff-slash-travel buddy, Kady.

Julia raises an eyebrow at him. “There you are. You never close the front door during business hours, and your wards are down--I was worried. What happened?”

Quentin sits up and gestures the warehouse lights on.

“Tah-dah.” He waits until they walk into the building before he stands up and pulls the lever to close the door. “The Royal Warlock happened. She decided that our wards were illegal.”

“She what? That _bitch._ ”

“She’s just following the rules.”

They walk through the warehouse to the office in the back. Quentin collapses into his chair; Julia takes a seat on the couch. Kady remains standing, but she leans against the door frame.

“This place is a disaster,” Kady says.

Quentin whines affirmatively into his hands instead of responding with words.

“Q, your ex has a bee up her butt and can’t tell the difference good magical innovation and dangerous experimentation, and she’ll use the law to say whatever she wants if it means she can get you to fold. She did, right?”

“What?”

“You’re the one who took down the wards.”

“Yeah, but--”

“Kady, could you reset the wards please? And add that new one from the Maheswaran paper?”

“K. Should I sweep for bugs?”

“Probably, just in case.”

Quentin sinks further into his chair and sighs. “Yeah, Kady, go away while I deal with Quentin’s bullshit,” he says, sarcastically, when Kady is too far away to hear him.

“I was going to suggest whiskey, actually.”

“I have so much to clean up, Jules.”

“We’ll do it later. It’ll be fine--you don’t have that bottle of Floater Scotch still, do you?”

“I’ve never had a good enough reason to open it, so, yeah? But this isn’t. A good enough reason, I mean.”

“I’m back in town!” Julia gets up from the couch and comes over to lean on the armrests of Quentin’s chair. And pout. “That’s a good reason. C’mon. Plus, if your ex terrorizing you isn’t a good reason to drink good scotch then I don’t know what is.”

Q is silent. He opens his eyes, and looks at his hands. He thinks about the leather case lying open on his work table that will need most of the latches mended. Julia backs off a little ways.

“It’s not about Alice, is it?” Julia asks, quietly. “What was she looking for?”

Q shakes his head. “It’s--He’s one of the Royal Couriers. And I...I don’t know _for sure_ but she asked about Eliot and the package he was carrying, and she warned me not to--not to talk to him. Whatever she thinks Eliot did, it’s not true, he’s not…”

“This is that cute one. The really tall Angel, who wouldn’t take his eyes off you the whole time we were upgrading wings with the attachment algorithm, who probably has more fashion sense in his big toe than you do in your entire body?”

“...Yeah. That sounds right. Wait--wouldn’t take his eyes off…?”

“He wanted to eat you alive, Q.”

“He’s like that with everyone.”

“Uh huh, sure.”

“Ah--anyway. He was here a few days ago for upkeep, and he had a package to take to Loria, only something was weird about the package. When I held it…” He’s quiet for a moment. He rubs his metallic fingers together with his thumb; nervous habit. It was one thing to tell Eliot, but Julia would ask more questions, if she even believed him. “It felt like it was missing everything inside of it. I don’t know how else to explain it.”

“Did you tell Alice that?”

“No, she didn’t ask. You don’t seem surprised.”

Julia’s looks out the glass walls of the office. Her eyes skate around the warehouse until they land on Kady. Quentin rolls his shoulders and gets up from his desk. He opens the back door in his office that opens up into his house, attached to the back of the building. Down the hall, from a pantry shelf, he shifts a few things over to pull out the bottle of unopened scotch. He grabs a few small glasses from his kitchen and goes back to the office. He sits down on the couch next to Julia and opens the bottle.

“We weren’t planning to come back yet--you know that.” Quentin hands her a glass. “Our last stop was in the Outer Islands. I was approached by someone--and I can’t say for sure, but he looked like a pirate. But like, a pirate with enough money to buy some really nice clothes. And he had this, like, really pale companion. Q I’ve traveled a lot and I’ve never seen anyone who looked like that.”

She shakes her head, and Quentin sips his drink.

“This is really good by the way. Anyway, he approached me and started talking some line about how I _look like a woman of taste and means who could afford a better bodyguard than the one you have, more powerful, and perfectly obedient_.” Julia deepens her voice a little to affect the man’s tone and rolls her eyes. “I told him no, but after talking it over with Kady we went back to look for him. We thought we could get more information, figure out what exactly he thought I needed a better bodyguard for. But he was gone. We asked around and there were rumors about pirates in the area but no one could agree how they got there or that they were even real because, and this is what made me think of your package story, everyone we talked to said they seem to disappear, but no one ever saw their means of transportation. No airships and no water ships, or even caravans.”

“So you think the pirates could have disappeared Eliot’s package contents?”

Julia elbows him. “No. Two events don’t make a pattern, just a weird coincidence. Oh, but also, every ship captain we talked to about getting passage somewhere new seemed reticent to take us, even with the amounts of money we were offering. It made both of us feel uncomfortable about pressing the issue. I know it sounds silly but, to stay safe traveling I’ve learned to trust my gut, and Kady’s. Especially when they agree.”

“So something is brewing.”

“Maybe.”

“K boss,” Kady says, sticking her head into the office, “we should be all good. You want me to stick around or you got...this?” she gestures at Quentin.

“We opened up Q’s really fancy scotch, if you want in.” Julia holds her glass out to Kady, who sniffs the liquor before taking a sip.

“Not bad, but is it really a good enough reason to put up with sulky Quentin Coldwater?”

Julia shrugs.

“Thanks Kady,” Q says, and tips his glass at her.

“We,” Julia gestures to Q and herself, “are going to spend the rest of the afternoon and evening putting things back where they belong. If you want to go see if they have any vacancy at the Winter’s Doe, then we won’t have to sleep on Q’s floor tonight.”

“That sounds like a plan.” Kady salutes and leaves through the normal-sized side door.

Q, tapped back into his wards, feels her exit shiver over his senses.

“So, she’s still calling you boss?” He asks Julia.

“Shut up.”

“I thought you were going to distract me.”

“Not with that.”

“How many years has it been? You’re basically already--”

“No. I need her, and she needs to be able to trust me to do her job. I can’t change that.”

“Oh sure, because keeping secrets is a great foundation for trust.”

Julia holds her empty glass out. Q shakes his head. “You owe me, just for that.”

Quentin rolls his eyes, and refills her glass.

“Fine. And for what it’s worth, I actually feel a little bit better now, thanks Jules.”

“I hate you.”

 

* * *

 

The next morning, before sunrise, Quentin wakes to the sound of tapping at his bedroom window. He turns over in in bed to ignore it--probably the rain--when the latch clicks open and his _second story_ window swings open. He scrambles to disentangle himself from his blankets.

“Q?” he hears over the rain, right before Eliot gets a wing caught on the edge of the window frame and stumbles over the shelf seat under the window. Quentin moves to catch him, and they both end up on the floor, Quentin with a lap full of soggy Eliot.

“Sorry,” Eliot says, and hisses in pain. A gust of wind blows rain through the window and Quentin knows he should get up and close it, but right now all he can do is wrap his arms around Eliot’s neck and pull him into a hug.

“Eliot. Thank the gods.”

Eliot buries his face into Quentin’s neck.

Quentin smiles, because despite everything? This isn’t so bad. Eliot is shivering. Or maybe just shaking with exhaustion--possibly both. Q almost reaches for the blanket on the bed, but there are better solutions to the problem.

“Hey, you should detach your wings, then you can get some sleep okay?”

Eliot mumbles into Q’s neck, but doesn’t move.

“May I?” Q asks, lightly. “You’re safe here, you can rest. We’ll figure it out.” He slides his hand down Eliot’s back and lets his fingers read the general status of Eliot’s wings. They’re functional, but not in great shape.

Eliot pushes himself up on his arms and looks away from Q. “I fucked them up again. It wasn’t on purpose, but, here I am.”

Q moves his hand to the side of Eliot’s face and gently, so gently turns it to face himself. “I can fix them. I can--” but instead of finishing his sentence, he leans up into Eliot and kisses him. It’s soft, and they’re both damp now, and a gust of wind blows rain into Quentin’s bedroom.

“Really? After all that, being a traitor to the crown is what it takes?”

“Hush. Take off your wings, and I’ll go get you a towel.”

“Mmmk,” Eliot says sleepily. “Thanks, Q.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some background lore: I was trying to figure out what colors the mage uniforms would be so I was thinking about what the national colors of Fillory would be (or equivalently; if they had a flag, what would the colors of the flag be?) I based this on the color of the guard uniforms but also on recurring colors in Eliot, Margo, and Fen's outfits, which resulted in [[this post](https://messier51.tumblr.com/post/184935411457/i-was-trying-to-figure-out-what-the-national)] and because I'm in charge in this 'verse the Wonderbread Fillory flag is now the national flag of the Kingdom of Fillory:  
> 
> 
> (Constructive criticism welcome!)


	4. intermission/announcement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't a real chapter--super sorry about the slow update. The rest of the chapters are pretty unlikely to get posted 'til after I finish my dissertation, unfortunately-- so next one probably in January. Real life grad school has to take precedence over the au for the fictional magic grad school show. Just want to say thanks everyone for the nice comments you've left and that I haven't abandoned this story, I just had to prioritize other things. <3

Grad school is hard, y'all. 


End file.
